Page 43 of Forced Pregnant Prisoner of the Bratva
The fire’s light wavers, shadows shivering across her knuckles, the thin bones, the half-moon press of her nails against glass. My chest tightens with something I can’t name—need, anger, hunger, the tangled mess of all three. I want to snap the spell, but I can’t bring myself to let go.
I draw in closer, the air between us shrinking, heat rising in the space she refuses to surrender. My voice scrapes low, rougher than I intend. “Don’t pity me.”
She meets my gaze head-on, unafraid, her own voice a knife sliding between my ribs. “It isn’t pity.”
The words knock the wind from my lungs. Simple, absolute, not an inch of doubt. Her stare pins me, something fierce and alive burning behind her calm. I’m used to men breaking under this look. Used to silence, to retreat, to terror in the air.
She’s unmoved, anchored, defiant in the face of every darkness I’ve thrown her way.
My pulse hammers, hard enough to drown the crackle of the fire. Her hand is still against mine—fingers warm, skin dry but trembling faintly, a shiver she doesn’t try to hide. The urge to close my hand over hers burns, raw and insistent. I want to feel her struggle, want to feel her yield. But she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull back.
The silence presses in, thick as velvet, smothering. The only sound is the soft catch of her breath and the low hum of the flames. The world narrows to this: her eyes, the press of her palm, the reckless defiance that lives in the space between us.
I don’t know whether to seize her, to pull her into the hunger that pulses just beneath my skin, or to stand and walk out before she can see what she does to me. She isn’t afraid. She isn’t conquered. Every inch of her is a challenge, a refusal to be claimed or broken.
Still, neither of us moves. The weight of it hangs, electric, almost unbearable. For once, I’m the one caught, frozen in the gaze of a woman who should be cowering, who should be plotting escape, but instead sits steady in the circle of my shadow.
I want to say something brutal, something to shatter the spell, but the words choke off before they reach my mouth. For the first time in years, I find myself at a loss. The world tilts, precarious, waiting for a choice I haven’t made.
At the last possible moment, I break the contact. I push back from the table so quickly the chair legs scrape the floor, harsh and discordant in the hush. My hand drops from hers. The wine sloshes in my glass, forgotten.
I move to the window, body taut, every muscle screaming for a fight. Outside, the estate is smothered in darkness, gardens sprawled under the weight of too many secrets. The glass reflects my face—hard, impassive, nothing of the man I was a moment ago. I rebuild the mask, piece by piece. Control. Command. The armor that’s kept me alive.
Behind me, I hear her breathe, steady and certain. She hasn’t moved. She’s watching, and I know she’s cataloging every flicker, every retreat. I hate how keenly I feel her gaze, the echo of her touch lingering against my skin, the certainty in her voice like a fresh wound.
When I finally turn, my face is set, my voice clipped and cold. “You should rest. Tomorrow will be… different.”
She studies me for a beat, and I see the spark of understanding—she knows I’m running. She nods, pushing back from the table, silent as a shadow. She leaves without looking back, the soft click of the door a punctuation I can’t ignore.
I stay in the room long after she’s gone, the fire burned low, wine untouched. Her effect lingers. The scent of her, the memory of her eyes, the sting of her defiance. I tell myself it’s nothing, a minor nuisance, a test of will.
The truth festers. She’s under my skin now, a splinter I can’t dig out.
When I finally make my way to bed, sleep comes in fits. My mind circles her face, her voice, the press of her hand. I see her across the table, see her mouth parted in hesitation, feel her breath mingling with mine. I imagine her here, not as a captive but as something else, an equal, a rival, a flame that doesn’t cower but burns back.
I see her beneath me, gasping my name with that same stubborn pride. I see her beside me, eyes dark with challenge,lips softening against my shoulder. I want to break her, but something inside me whispers that breaking her would ruin everything I want. It’s not possession that haunts me. It’s something far more dangerous. The possibility that she could remake me just by refusing to break.
I lie in the dark, jaw clenched, breath ragged, fighting the urge to call her back just to prove I can still command my own hunger. I whisper the lie I’ve always clung to, the only prayer I trust:“It’s control I want. Not her. Never her.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, the truth presses close, heavy as her gaze. Control was never enough. It isn’t enough now. She is.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Karmia
The chandelier’s light fractures across crystal, scattering cold rainbows down the length of the table. Cutlery glints.
Conversation weaves between bursts of brittle laughter, each joke sharpened to a point, the kind meant to draw blood just beneath the surface. I keep my eyes on the pattern in the tablecloth, tracing gold filigree with a fingernail, pretending not to hear the veiled comments that circle like sharks.
“She is certainly… unconventional,” one aunt remarks, lips curled in something that wants to be a smile.
“So clever, our Rostya, bringing in new blood. These days, loyalty must be earned in so many interesting ways,” another quips, glass raised, her gaze flicking over me as if I might flinch on command.
They toast to futures, to alliances, to strong sons and obedient wives. I raise my glass when required, mouth twisting around a smile so careful it aches.
Every swallow of expensive wine tastes like ash. Their eyes linger too long, weighing the cost of letting someone like me into their circle. An outsider, a chess piece, a problem disguised as a solution.
Through it all, Rostya’s hand remains anchored at the small of my back, warm, possessive, never pressing but never quite letting go. It’s a warning and a promise in one. I wonder if he feels how my breath stutters every time someone speaks my name with that edge of ownership, that perfect Bratva blend of welcome and threat.
Dinner stretches on, course after course, each one more intricate than the last. Silver domes lifted, sauces poured, laughter building like storm clouds.
